There's Something Solid Forming In The Air,

The Wall Of Death Is Lowered In Times Square.

No-one Seems To Care,

They Carry On As If Nothing Was There.

The Wind Is Blowing Harder Now,

Blowing Dust Into My Eyes.

The Dust Settles On My Skin,

Making A Crust I Cannot Move In

And I'm Hovering Like A Fly, Waiting For The Windshield On The Freeway.